


Time to change Gear

by DrunkGerbil



Series: The Clarkson-Hammonds [3]
Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Epic Friendship, F/M, Female Richard Hammond, Inspired by Jeremy’s article, Parent-Child Relationship, Pre-Top Gear Era, Richelle Hammond, Swearing, Writer's Block, the beginning of the epic friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26838607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrunkGerbil/pseuds/DrunkGerbil
Summary: The job he thought was the best in the world ends up making him miserable, and paired with the worst writer's block he’s ever experienced, Jeremy has had to draw a line under that chapter of his life.The problem is: what to do next? Figuring out your future career path while being a stay-at-home-dad to a toddler - how hard can it be?At the same time, in the world’s most boring PR job, Richelle meets a strange, shabby haired man and decides that he’s friend shaped.Despite everything, it’s the beginning of something great.
Relationships: Jeremy Clarkson & James May, Jeremy Clarkson & Richard Hammond & James May, Jeremy Clarkson/Richard Hammond, Richard Hammond & James May
Series: The Clarkson-Hammonds [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957702
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Time to change Gear

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by Jeremy Clarkson’s article “Time to change Gear” from his book ‘Born to be riled’.

It’s late when Richelle comes home from work. Jeremy is still up, sits in the living room watching a documentary when she clicks in on her heels. He’s both keyed up and completely exhausted from a day of trying to write, to come up with new ideas, to figure out where his career is going, now that his time on Top Gear is over.  
The telly is muted, because Fin is peacefully slumbering on Jeremy’s chest. They are trying to get him used to sleeping in his own room, now that he’s three, but it’s not going so well. He’s scared of the dark and can’t stand closed doors, and he calls for his parents every few hours. Putting him to bed is a production of its own, and usually requires the both of them and some serious bribery. That’s why Jeremy has given up at half past nine and simply sat on the couch with his cranky toddler, who was so exhausted from whinging that he had fallen asleep in under five minutes. As a parent who wants to establish rules, one should never give in in the face of adversary. Jeremy has failed tonight, he knows. Rich knows, too, if the exasperated sigh from the doorway is anything to go by. Jeremy looks up at his wife, who is dressed in a form fitting pencil skirt and a blouse with the top few buttons undone, and she is just as pretty as this morning when she left for the Renault Sport event her company had organized. He has the urge to get up and take her clothes off and do her right here over the couch. He also has a sleeping toddler on his chest, which cancels all the fun plans right there and then. Sadly, it’s been months since he’s seen Richelle naked, but that won’t change tonight. Instead of seduction, he tries to look too pitiful for her to scold.  
  
It works.  
  
Or maybe she just doesn’t want to disturb the boychild.  
  
Either way, she takes off her stilettos and carefully lowers herself onto the couch, where she leans against Jeremy’s shoulder and lightly caresses Fin’s cheek.  
  
“What are we watching?” she whispers. The grainy footage of a spitfire flashes across the screen. Richelle groans, but stays there, cuddled against Jeremy’s side.  
  
“Did you have a good time being slobbered over by Renault people all day?” Jeremy asks quietly after a while.  
  
“Yes, actually. Well, the slobbering wasn't all that great, but me and Mindy met a bloke. James May, you know him? We made him deliver messages between us.”  
  
“What a coincidence,” Jeremy answers, a little listlessly. “Today, Tiff phoned to tell me that my replacement had been chosen. That’s him.”  
  
He doesn’t know how he actually feels about that, so he sticks with a neutral tone when he says it. He wishes May luck, he really does. Maybe Birmingham won’t suck the life out of him as it did for Jeremy, the last few months.  
He’s being dramatic, he knows. Tiff, Quentin and Vicky, their banter, their humor are all things he’s going to miss about the job. That he misses already. It’s the filming and the writing that had bothered him, in the end. The parts that he never thought he would tire of. Coming up with bombastic metaphors, shocking opinions, and silly jokes only got you so far when you were bound by the tight grasp of regulations.  
The simple, honest truth is: It had stopped being fun, and paired with the worst writer's block he’s ever experienced, Jeremy has had to draw a line under that chapter of his life.  
  
Out of the corner of his eyes he can see Richelle’s face fall.  
  
“Oh, baby,” she says with a sorrowful tone, and kisses him. At first it’s gentle and sweet and meant as a sorry, but it gets heated soon, and by the time little Fin starts to wake they are both out of breath. Foiled again, Jeremy thinks benevolently as Fin shrieks, “Mummy!” and practically throws himself into his mother’s arms. Richelle receives him gladly, but gives her husband a worried look over her son’s head.  
  
“It’s alright,” Jeremy assures, and tries a smile on that he knows she knows is fake. “I’m alright. I was the one that quit.”  
  
Now he only has to pull himself out of the hole he has sunk into, and get on with it.  
  
~  
  
It’s at a motor show when they finally do meet. Jeremy is here because there is a column due in two days, and he has to say something about something. Also, Richelle has taken the boychild to visit one of her brothers for the day, and Jeremy doesn’t think he’d fare very well staring at an empty word document while his fingers burn to type and his head is completely empty without any distractions around. He has gotten used to being a stay-at-home-dad to a demanding toddler over the last few weeks.  
  
Thankfully, somebody sidles up to him and pulls Jeremy out of his maudlin thoughts. He’s quite a bit less thankful when he realizes who it is.  
  
"Clarkson," the shabby haired man greets.  
  
"May," Jeremy answers, pleased with himself that he managed to put name and face together. It's a good thing Richelle had talked about him only last week, after she’d met him at another company event. It could have gotten awkward, otherwise. Then again, the way they stand next to each other without saying a word, the silence everything but comfortable, maybe it is rather awkward. Could have something to do with the job thing, Jeremy muses, and has the sudden urge to wave his arms and yell, “I wasn’t fired! I was the one who quit! My decision! You didn’t steal my job!”  
He doesn’t, of course. That would be supremely strange.  
But he’s had this urge several times before, mostly when talking to people he knows well. His mom, his sister, Richelle’s parents, Andy. They are aware of the facts, but a mean little voice in his head keeps telling him that people will think otherwise. That it’s an important distinction that he’s not been fired, and that they even asked him to stay when he’d made his decision official. He tries telling himself there’s no reason to feel so rubbish about it if it was his decision.  
  
He shoots James May a look, who furtively glances away. Wonders how often May might have been fired in his life.  
  
"Have you had a go in that pile of horse shit yet?" Jeremy asks, nodding at just another Vauxhall, just to say something.  
May has, and they complain about the car for a bit. They both disliked it, so instead conversation soon turns to cars they have differing opinions on. When Jeremy concludes that May is still as idiotic as ever and he doesn't want to talk to him anymore, the man says, "I've met your wife," apropos nothing.  
  
Jeremy is a little surprised by the change of topics.  
  
"I know.”  
  
"She gave me a pebble," James says, and a second later seems to register what a strange statement that might be and flushes slightly.  
  
"Is that a euphemism?" Jeremy asks. He knows full well that Richelle wouldn’t cheat, and if she did, she’d do it with a hot lesbian, not with a strange man in an ugly cord suit. It’s just the first thing that comes to his mind, and it makes him laugh.  
  
May looks startled. Then he pulls his hand out of his pocket and shows Jeremy a little stone. It's nice, as pebbles go.  
  
"She said it's a lucky pebble, because she gave it to me," James explains, bemused, and that's an on brand statement for Richelle if Jeremy’s ever heard one.  
  
"And you carry it around because?" he asks, intrigued despite himself.  
  
"Well, what if it is?" James asks right back.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Lucky."  
  
Jeremy considers this. “I guess you’ll have to keep it forever, then.”  
  
May nods slowly, as if he had gotten a sensible answer, and they part ways afterwards. That night, at home, Jeremy tells Richelle about this strange conversation, and she beams.  
  
“I like him, even if he’s stolen your job,” she says while trying to stop Finlo from shoveling mashed potatoes up his nose.  
  
“He hasn’t, and he’s a bit strange,” Jeremy answers.  
  
“Exactly! He’d fit right in with us.”  
  
Jeremy wants to explain to her that James May has a very bad taste in cars and is therefore untrustworthy, but is interrupted when his son lobs his spoon against the wall. Mashed potato goes everywhere, but mostly on Rich. Jeremy wheezes with laughter at Fin’s proud grin. Richelle sighs, and gives him a look that has Jeremy get up to retrieve the spoon while she starts to clean the boychild. He does so with maximum complaining.  
  
It’s a good evening.  
  
~  
  
Richelle presents him with an email from a friend of hers. There’s an open position for a presenter on a car programme.  
  
“It’s satellite television!” Jeremy yells, aghast. “I can’t work on satellite television!”  
  
“Fine,” Richelle answers snottily. “Then I’ll apply for it myself. It cannot be more boring than event management for Renault.”  
  
“You do that, and when you get the job, and you invariably will, I will mock you for it endlessly.”  
  
Richelle only sticks out her tongue at him. Finlo sees, and obviously mimics his mother immediately.  
  
~  
  
The following saturday, Jeremy is sitting in the living room, desperately trying to put words onto paper, while keeping an eye on Fin, who is, for a change, quietly playing on the carpet. He’s stacking blocks, just to collapse them and have a giggle about it. Sometimes he hands one to Jeremy, who obligingly takes and inspects it before handing it back with an approving nod.  
  
The column he’s working on still hasn’t got a real subject. His thoughts are meandering around like some victorian era woman in a nightgown in the moor. Sometimes they get stuck and drown.  
Maybe he should explain his departure from Top Gear. People have asked him for reasons, and about his plans for the future, and he’d very much like them to stop. He’d very much like to know those plans, himself.  
  
The key rattles in the front door, it opens and Richelle’s voice drifts in. She chatters away about something that sounds like the cocking motorbike she has set out to buy this morning. A deeper rumble answers her. Jeremy watches his wife march into the living room, where she scoops up the squealing boychild and plants several noisy kisses on his face. James May appears in the doorway behind her, surveying the scene, and waves awkwardly at Fin, who is reacting the same way he always does to strangers: Waving his little arms wildly and chanting “Hullo!” until he gets a reaction.  
  
“Fin, this is James. He’s a friend of Mummy’s,” Richelle explains.  
  
“Hullo!” Fin repeats.  
  
“Hullo,” James echoes with a smile, which turns awkward again when he faces Jeremy.  
  
“Clarkson.”  
  
“May.”  
  
Richelle rolls her eyes. She deposits Fin on Jeremy’s lap and says, “James outbid me on the bike I wanted, so we’ll fix it up together. He’s staying for dinner.”  
  
Jeremy looks at May, who still hovers in the doorway. He takes a step back when Richelle passes through and walks to the garage door.  
  
“I’m making murgh korma,” Jeremy says, loudly, to whom it might concern. James nods appreciatively before following Rich. Jeremy can work with that.  
  
“I don’t like it,” she calls from the hallway.  
  
“You’ve never had it before, how would you know?!” Jeremy yells after her.  
  
“I just do!”  
  
“No, you don’t! You’ll like it!” He looks down at Fin, who is holding his hands over his ears and giggling again.  
  
“She’ll like it,” Jeremy says decisively.  
  
“Ye,” Fin agrees.  
  
~  
  
Dinner is, as usual, a relaxed affair. The kitchen already looks like a bomb exploded in it, as it is wont to do after Jeremy cooked, and the Clarkson-Hammond’s are a rather loud and lively family under the best of circumstances. Jeremy and Richelle squabble about the motorbike that she got her hands on even without being the buyer, and Finlo has been throwing his own two cents in ever since he is capable of speech. A lot of friendly yelling is going on, and hand waving, and Jeremy has to remind both his son and his wife not to talk with their mouths full on several occasions.  
  
What is surprising, at least to Jeremy, is how James May joins in on the banter. He is more than slightly puzzled to begin with, holding back out of shyness or politeness, but once he seems to have gotten the idea that this is normal in this house, the sass comes out. May tentatively joins Richelle in ribbing Jeremy and his dislike for motorbikes, and suddenly May turns around and mocks her for her Evel Knievel inspired helmet.  
  
Jeremy is so entertained that he pours James and himself a drink.  
  
“Oh, I can’t. I drove here,” May says.  
  
“We’ll figure something out later,” Jeremy says, and keeps pouring.  
  
After everybody is done, Richelle takes the boychild for a bath that he desperately needs, and Jeremy remains sitting at the table with James in front of him. He’s kept their glasses topped up, and both are a good way past tipsy. James keeps glancing at the mountain of dirty dishes. Jeremy wonders what ticks him off so much about it, but is willing to wait him out. He pours more wine.  
  
“We should probably wash up before it dries stuck,” James finally breaks, enunciating every word carefully. “I’ll give you a hand.”  
  
“No need,” Jeremy returns. “I did the cooking, that means Rich does the washing up. That’s the rule.”  
  
“I think she’s already doing the washing,” James says, glancing in the direction of the stairs. Richelle’s voice can be heard from upstairs, a singsong she always employs when Fin gets a bath.  
  
“I hate doing the dishes, that’s why I cook,” Jeremy explains. “Richelle hates cooking, that’s why she does the washing up afterwards. Everybody’s happy.”  
  
James nods at him, thoughtfully, then his eyes wander back to the dishes. He looks a little tortured, Jeremy muses, and then James gets up and starts the faucet.  
  
“I’ll just,” he waves a hand vaguely about and pours soap into the water.  
  
“You are a very strange man, James,” Jeremy says, not unkindly, and lets May drunkenly do the dishes. Afterwards, they settle in the living room with a second bottle of wine, and argue animatedly about the VW Beetle of all things. The matter of Top Gear is very carefully not spoken about, but they manage without any further awkwardness. James is, as it seems, always ready to argue. About anything. A man after Jeremy’s own heart.  
At some point, Rich appears in the room with a freshly bathed and content Fin to say good night, since she will have an early morning. Jeremy gets the stink eye, because he is evidently not nearly sober enough to participate in the song and dance of putting Finlo to bed. James gets a promise to work on the bike more next weekend. The boychild waves goodbye enthusiastically, and she leaves them to it.  
  
They argue for the rest of the bottle of wine before James gets up with difficulty and slurs, “I should really go.”  
  
“You’re drunk, you can’t drive!” Jeremy booms, grinning at James as he sways on the spot.  
  
“Taxi?”  
  
“Nonsense! It’s late and we have a perfectly good guest room.”  
  
James squints at him.  
  
“Are you planning to kill me in my sleep?”  
  
Jeremy laughs.  
  
~  
  
“What’s going on?” Richelle asks when Jeremy comes into their bedroom. She’s still awake and sitting up in bed, her lamp on and a car trader in her lap. She’s been searching for a blasted 911 again, Jeremy is sure. It saves him trying to be quiet, which he isn’t very good at at the best of times, least of all when he’s drunk.  
  
“Nothing’s going on,” he says brightly, and flops down on the bed, making her bounce. It earns him a swat with the paper.  
  
“The dishes were done,” she says accusingly. In other families, Jeremy muses, the wife wouldn’t sound so cross about it. He still feels the need to defend himself, idiotically.  
  
“James did them! Apparently he can’t stand the disorder or something. Anyway, I’ve put him up in the guest room, so don’t panic when you go for a wee at night.”  
  
“James is still here?!”  
  
“He’s drunk, he can’t drive,” Jeremy offers. He feels like the conversation is getting away from him.  
  
“Because you got him drunk.”  
  
That is technically true, though Jeremy thinks James could have protested more if he really had been averse to the idea. He doesn’t quite understand what Richelle is getting at, either. She’s the one who brought May home like a stray cat and declared him to be friend material. So he shrugs a little helplessly instead of answering, as she stares at him.  
  
“I’m worried about you,” she finally says.  
  
“Because I’m drunk? Love, I hate to inform you, but the two of us have been out drinking together quite a lot before we multiplied.”  
  
She frowns at him, but there is a smile somewhere underneath. Some of the parties and events they’ve been to in the past have truly been legendary, as have the following hangovers. On a few occasions Jeremy ended up carrying his wife thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes while she hollered obscenities at men twice her size. Fond memories.  
  
“No, you pillock. I just… you wanted to write today.” She sounds a little miserable, and looks the part, so Jeremy sits up properly and studies her.  
  
“I did,” he says finally, feeling more on guard than ever.  
  
“Yes, I saw. I read it.”  
  
Oh, Jeremy thinks. A weight settles in his stomach, ten times heavier than what he feels when staring at an empty page. Something like dread.  
He isn’t mad that Richelle read his scribbles. Usually, he leaves them out just for that reason. She reads them, and it makes her laugh, or at the very least roll her eyes, and then they talk about it. He listens to her opinions, and sometimes he changes something according to them. Incorporation of criticism, and all that jazz.  
He hasn’t left any of his writing lying about in weeks now. She must have noticed, must have worried, but never said anything. Let him have his time to overcome writer’s block.  
This afternoon, with cooking and Finlo and James May, he’d simply forgotten to put it away. Naturally, Rich had seen it and assumed he’d want her to read it.  
  
“It’s rubbish, isn’t it?” he asks, breathless for some reason. Richelle’s eyes widen.  
  
“No! No, of course not,” she protests, and by the way she says it he might believe her, if it wasn’t for the added, “It’s just…”  
  
Jeremy waits patiently for her to continue. For all of five seconds. Then he snaps, “Yes? What? It’s just what?”  
  
“It’s all so sad,” she finishes.  
  
The silence is oppressive. They stare at each other until Jeremy can’t take it anymore and looks away. Down at his hands, to the window, the door, his hands again.  
  
“Jeremy. Look at me,” Richelle says gently but firmly. He does, and when she pets the bed beside her, he lies down at her side. Lets her arrange him until his head is in her lap. Looking up at her, at the ceiling behind her head, he notices quite how drunk he is as everything spins slowly.  
  
“I want to help you. Please, baby, let me help,” Richelle says quietly. Her fingers run through his locks, softly massaging his scalp, and Jeremy lets his eyes drift shut.  
  
“I don’t know how,” he confides. “I don’t know what to do now. Maybe the decision to quit was too hasty.”  
  
“Jeremy, don’t take this the wrong way, but you were a right cunt every time you came home from filming there. You were very obviously miserable,” Richelle states matter of factly, and Jeremy can’t help but snort. It’s true. His fights with Rich, the serious kind, not the friendly squabbling, definitely lessened since he doesn’t have to drive to Pebble Mill five days a week. Quitting has improved his mood insofar that he isn’t pointlessly angry anymore. He just feels pointless sometimes, now.  
  
“It’s like a void where Top Gear was, and I don’t know how to fill it.”  
  
“You love writing,” she says.  
  
“Yeah, but where do I put it now? What do I write about?”  
  
“Another show? Or maybe more journalism again instead of telly?”  
  
Decisions, decisions. And no words that flow from his brain to his fingers. When he doesn’t speak, Richelle leans over and brushes a kiss onto his forehead.  
  
“Well, you have time to figure it out. Do research, talk to people. Ask Andy, he always has more ideas than a single person can realize in a lifetime.”  
  
Jeremy sighs, gives a non committal hum. It’s a good idea, he supposes, even if every fibre of his being bristles at the thought of running and asking for help.  
  
“I just want to write. I don’t even care about what anymore.”  
  
“Then write a book or something,” she says, and wriggles down so that she ends up in his arms where she belongs, and turns the light off.  
  
“I love you, you know,” Richelle murmurs quietly after a while. He thought she might have fallen asleep by now.  
  
“Yes, I know, you big girl,” Jeremy answers in his best long suffering tone. Then he tightens his arms around her and whispers, ever quieter, “I love you too. Even if your motorbike is stupid.”  
  
“It’s not even mine,” comes the sulky reply, and Jeremy smiles as he drifts off to sleep.  
  
~  
  
A knocking on the bedroom door startles Jeremy awake. He is so used to being woken by Finlo bursting in that he doesn't even consider how the knocking is a lot more refined than his son's normal full body tackle against any barrier between him and his goal, namely his parents' bed.  
  
Therefore Jeremy groans "Mrrueah?" and the door opens. Light from the hallway blinds him, and he blearily blinks up at James May, who blearily blinks down at him. He is also holding a squirming and wide awake Fin at arm’s length away from himself.  
  
"Your child is a menace," James informs him, voice gruff from sleep.  
  
"He's mine," Jeremy slurs in answer.  
  
"Shuddup," says Richelle, muffled from where her face is pressed into the pillow. Jeremy looks at her, or at least at the wild shock of hair that he can see, and pokes her shoulder.  
  
“Your turn,” he says.  
  
“No, it’s fucking not!” comes the indignant reply. “I have to get up in two hours to go to work, you do it!”  
  
“Oh, alright,” Jeremy huffs, and disentangles himself from the covers. When he takes Finlo out of May’s hands, the man looks deeply relieved. Until Finlo very clearly pronounces, “Fucking.” Then, James May’s face crumbles and he bursts out laughing. And what a laugh it is. Braying, honking, giggling, the full set. It sets off Jeremy, too. And shortly after Richelle joins. Between bursts of her own high pitched cackling, she kicks them all out of the bedroom and threatens bodily harm if she gets woken again. Not to the boychild, of course, who she gives another goodnight kiss before closing the door in Jeremy’s face.  
  
As he puts Finlo back to bed and tries to come up with an explanation why he shouldn’t say ‘fucking’ again, when clearly every adult in hearing vicinity had greatly enjoyed it the last time, Jremy can feel the onset of a horrible hangover. He hears May return to the guest room, and then the key turns in the lock. Jeremy snorts. If May thinks that a locked door will keep a determined Finlo out, there will be another rude awakening.  
  
~  
  
When Jeremy stumbles into the kitchen the next morning, he finds a note from Rich that tells him he has to pick the boychild up from kindergarten at noon. He finds that there is hot coffee in the thermos and thanks god for his woman as he pours himself a cup.  
  
During his second cup, May shuffles in, looking as bad as Jeremy feels.  
  
“Coffee?” Jeremy asks in the way of a greeting. James considers, then asks, “You don’t have tea, I assume?”  
  
Jeremy has no idea. His mother-in-law likes a cup of tea from time to time, so there might be some for when she visits next. But hunting for tea in the cupboards would mean he’d have to get up, so he decides, “No,” is close enough to the truth. James sighs, and grabs a clean cup to fill it with coffee. The faces he makes while drinking it are quite funny, and Jeremy watches in amusement as he downs it in a few big gulps before pouring a second cup.  
When Jeremy feels awake and generous enough, he gets up and prepares some butter toasts that he plops down in the middle of the kitchen table before sitting back down in his chair and starting to eat. May nibbles hesitantly, but when the first few bites don’t provoke last night’s dinner to eject itself, he relaxes into his chair.  
  
“Can I ask you something?” James breaks the surprisingly companionable silence after a while. Jeremy musters him from undoubtedly bloodshot eyes.  
  
“If you must,” he settles on.  
  
“Why did you quit Top Gear?”  
  
They had been steadily heading towards that question. James, perhaps too polite to ask a virtual stranger, or simply too private, must be quite hungover to succumb to curiosity now. Jeremy thought he’d have a few more sunday afternoons of May and Richelle tinkering in the garage before he’d have to answer it. Well, maybe he doesn’t have to answer it. James May seems like the kind of bloke that can take a ‘sod off’ in stride without any hard feelings.  
  
He might want to answer it, though. So someone who didn’t see the miserable arse he’d been in his private life in the last few months of his employment with the BBC knows of the truth. It does kind of concern May, after all.  
  
“How is filming going?” he asks, instead of answering directly. May shrugs.  
  
“Good, I guess. Haven’t cocked up too badly yet.”  
  
Jeremy laughs, more at the ‘yet’ than anything else.  
  
“I have this picture in my head, you know. Of Top Gear how it could be. Bigger and better and completely mad. And no matter how I rattle at the chains of Top Gear how it is, it won’t ever go there.”  
  
“No way of changing it from the outside, either,” May says.  
  
“And that’s why I need to do something new now.”  
  
May nods, thoughtfully, and says, “New is always better, anyways,” and Jeremy is weirdly certain that the strange man in his kitchen might possibly understand a little where he’s coming from.  
They continue drinking their coffees in silence, until at some point James gets up with the words, “Bugger, I’m late for work,” and leaves.  
  
That afternoon, after picking Finlo up from kindergarten and feeding him leftovers from yesterday, Jeremy sits down and writes his column. He writes it in one go, and when Rich comes home late from work, he lets her read it. It’s as much an explanation to the public as it is a reassurance to her.  
He finishes with, “So what am I going to do to fill the void left by Top Gear? Simple. I’m going to write and write and write until the smiles come back.” His own as well as the smiles on the faces of people watching him. He has started by putting a smile on Richelle’s face as she reads the passage about metaphors. He’s woken her up more than once to tell her about some silly line he’s come up with.  
  
“It’s still sad,” she says afterwards, and leans over to kiss him. “But at least it’s a little hopeful, too.”  
  
“Well,” he says, and pulls her onto his lap. “It was time to change gear.”  
  
“Oh god, love, no. That was terrible.”  
  
“And I will make it the title. You knew what you were getting into when you married me,” he explains impenitently. Richelle huffs, but a grin spreads on her face. She wriggles around in his lap, and Jeremy becomes suddenly acutely aware that, for the first time in months, the boychild is fast asleep in his own bed. He’s endlessly proud of that achievement, and even more glad now that Rich is here.  
  
“You should be nicer to me,” Richelle purrs. “I have a job interview tomorrow.”  
  
“The horrible satellite television job?” he asks, and Rich nods proudly. He can’t help but plant a big wet kiss on her.  
  
“They’ll beg you to take the job,” he assures when they part for breath. “It’s because you have perky tits.”  
  
“Not because of my personality and sparkling wit?”  
  
“Hmm. Maybe because of those, too. But mostly for your tits.”  
  
He cups them through her button down to accentuate his point, and says, “You know what this calls for? A celebratory shag!”  
  
“Fucking finally,” Richelle sighs and shucks her skirt up to show Jeremy that she’s not wearing any knickers.


End file.
